


Unwritten

by Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consent, Developing Relationship, Leather Kink, Light Dom/sub, M/M, previous unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:03:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In their first months together, Sherlock thinks has successfully hidden one of his most powerful fetishes. John, however, is more observant than Sherlock imagines. He's also a very quick study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosociallyyours](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/gifts).



The very moment he opened the door to the flat, Sherlock knew.

He knew without looking, without asking.

He could tell by the scent alone.

_Leather._

_New leather. Barely touched_.

He tried in vain to suppress the shiver that ran down his spine.

As always, his mind raced, imagining, categorizing, then discarding the possibilities: Jacket? Gloves? Whip? Each idea filled his chest and abdomen with delicious tightness for an instant.

But he knew better than to get his hopes up. John had no idea about Sherlock's obsession, or about the hundreds of brief, tantalizing thoughts Sherlock had swept aside since John entered his life.

Even when John took to wearing the hunting jacket with the leather patches. Those patches Sherlock managed never to touch or stroke.

And then there were John's black leather gloves... they made John seem even more commanding. Even more dangerous. 

Black leather gloves had been a weakness of Sherlock's; in fact, he wore his own pair as a reminder to himself of a relationship he'd formed as a young man. Keeping the gloves wasn't done out of sentiment. No, not in the least. There hadn't been much love or sentiment involved. There had, though, been mind-blowing, body-consuming, life-altering sex.  Sex and control and submission that pushed everyone and everything to the side.  He'd barely had the courage to end it. He'd nearly agreed to give up his work, even his own autonomy, just to keep the flow of adrenaline coming.

Strange that he'd desensitized himself to the same black gloves he'd kissed and sucked and nuzzled, yet the sight of leather, any kind of leather, on John always pulled his attention.

And now there was more. 

He stepped into the sitting room, and he saw them at once: new, leather-bound journals, stacked on the table by the window.

His heart sank.

And yet, he had to admit a certain sense of relief. How could he wish to return to those distracting times? How could he wish to be again at the mercy of someone who could bestow and withhold something so important? 

Then he imagined John as that person. Just for an instant.  Just for the tiniest moment, he imagined a man like John, a good, caring man, with such power. Surely, that would have to be different? John was every bit as dangerous --more, really, considering the fact that John had already killed a man to save Sherlock's life--, but he was also morally centered. Kind. Just. 

A huff of resignation escaped Sherlock's lips. Well, it was an interesting fantasy for a moment. Nothing more. And this is better. 

_Isn't it? Isn't it much better?_

Sherlock ran one long finger down the soft, brown cover of the nearest journal.

"I don't suppose it's even worth asking you not to snoop around in those, is it?" John's voice came from somewhere much closer than Sherlock expected. He'd heard the footsteps approaching, of course, but then he'd shifted his focus...  

_Not good._

"Are you taking up a new hobby, John? Scrapbooking? Flower-pressing, perhaps?" He smiled down at the good Doctor. John's eyes narrowed, but they were shining with humour, just the same.

"No, I'm just... writing.  You know... information from the cases, observations, ideas that might strike..."

"Mmmm.  Given up on blogging, then? Probably for the best..."

"I haven't given up on the blog. You wish.  No, it's just that sometimes I find it easier to write things down on paper. I can write longhand faster than I can type, and..."

"The average five-year-old can write faster than you can type, John..."

"Oi..."

"Mrs. Turner's pet spaniel could probably write faster than you can type..."

"Shut it, Sherlock."

For the second time in only a few minutes, Sherlock felt himself shiver.

It wasn't even a serious command. It was a playful comment, nothing more. Just friendly banter.

But it had made Sherlock tremble all the same.

"You all right?" John asked.  His steel-blue eyes looked concerned as they searched Sherlock's. 

Then the concern turned to ... recognition. Understanding. 

Was it even... could it be... lust?

John licked his lips.

"You know, there's something in particular I like about these. It's why I bought them. Take a look at the way they fasten."

Indeed, Sherlock had noticed that before anything else. It was a simple, effective design: one long, leather cord, knotted at the end, strung through a hole in the front cover, then wrapped around several times. 

"The nice thing," John continued, "Is that you can pull the leather cord out completely if you want.  Use it for something else, maybe. Try it."

Now it was definitely getting warm in the room. No wonder, as Sherlock had forgotten to remove his coat and scarf.  He pulled the scarf from around his neck and slid one arm out of his overcoat.

"No, thank you, John. I'm not in need of any..."

John squared his shoulders and raised his chin. "I said, Sherlock, try it. Take the cord out of the cover. Now, please."

Sherlock just stood there, lips parted, the scarf still in his hand and his overcoat still dangling from one arm.

"Give it here," John nodded at Sherlock's coat, took it and the scarf, and unceremoniously threw them over the back of Sherlock's leather chair.

With a quick glance, Sherlock noticed that the coat fell as though it were a person being bent forwards, head down...

Now he was trembling in earnest.

"Why... Why do you want the cord?" His hands were shaking as they hovered above the leather volume.

"You know why I want it. Now take it out and put it in my hand."

Sherlock took a moment to consider.

Then he quickly unwound the leather cord, took the knotted end, and pulled the cord loose. He laid it in John’s hand.

“Very good. See how easy that is? Right. The next thing I’d like you to do is to put your hands flat on the table. Palms down. “  John moved closer, and the heat from his body, from his breathing, made Sherlock close his eyes. “You’ll have to lean forward.  Do it. Lean forward, Sherlock, and stay perfectly still.”

_Oh, God…_

His knees felt weak for a moment.  And still his mind raced. Was this what he wanted? Could he have this again? Was he in danger of losing himself again?

He put his hands down on the table, close enough, he judged, so the cord would wrap around them.

Only it didn’t matter.

Because the cord, the alternating smooth and rough edges of it, began to slowly, torturously snake across his throat.

He let out an involuntary, breathy sound, something between a sigh and a moan.

The cord wrapped around his throat and was held firmly –not tightly— by John’s sure, strong hand.

John pulled Sherlock gently until Sherlock’s ear was nearly touching John’s lips.

“Do you know, Sherlock Holmes, what I’ve dreamed of doing with you? Hmm? D’you have even the slightest idea how maddeningly beautiful you are? And now, to see you like this… To imagine I could have you completely at my mercy…”

Sherlock swallowed hard as the cord tightened.

“But I can’t have you, Sherlock, unless I know it’s what you want. Unless I know I’m giving you more pleasure than you’re giving me. You see,” John leaned in even closer, “That’s MY fetish. Giving pleasure. Watching pleasure take over a body as it moves and writhes and begs for more.  Controlling, yes, I expect you’ve deduced that I like to give orders. And I like my orders to be obeyed. But I like them obeyed willingly. Eagerly. Freely.”

The cord loosened and fell  onto the table by Sherlock’s hands.  He didn’t move.  John was so near, his face still pressed close. He wanted to prolong this sensation.

“I want you to take some time and think about what you would like,” puffs of John’s breath stirred the curls at Sherlock’s temples. It tickled, but Sherlock didn’t care. “If I could make you happy, if that is something you want, then it would make me happy, too.  And there are things… so many, many things I want to do with you, things that will bring you to the brink of pleasure over and over and over… but I don’t want any of them until you’re ready.  IF you’re ready.  And if you want it as much as I do. Can you understand that, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

“Here, let me help you,” John took Sherlock’s arm and half-led, half-supported him over to the sofa.  Sherlock could only collapse onto it, his eyes fixed on John.

John brushed the curls from Sherlock’s forehead.

“Look, I need to go out in a bit. Not this instant, but in a little while. I’d like to just sit by you… I could hold you if you want, but we don’t have to. We can just sit.  And then later, when I come back, we can talk some more, if you’re up to it.  But listen… if this is uncomfortable or too much or feels wrong in any way, then we never need discuss it again, okay?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And no matter what, I’m still here to help you however you need me. I won’t leave. Unless you want me to leave.  And if you want me to leave, please just say the word and I’ll go without any problem. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good.” John placed his hand next to Sherlock’s. Close, but not touching. Just… there.

Sherlock put his own hand on top of John’s, and closed his eyes.

They sat like that, not speaking for some time.

*****

When John returned later that evening, he found Sherlock surrounded by a stack of case folders and medical journals.  Long, elegant fingers flew across the keyboard of John’s laptop.  He didn’t look up.

“You’re using MY computer? For work?”

“You said yourself that you preferred to write. Mine was in the bedroom, and this one was closer. Is that a problem?”

“No, I guess it’s …. No, it’s fine.  Try to get it back to me in one piece, all right? I’m not sure the keys are used to that kind of a workout.” He saw one side of Sherlock’s mouth curl up into a half-smile.

“You want any tea?”

“Yes.”

“A biscuit?”

“Yes.”

“Right. I’ll just get it started, then.”

“Yes, John.”  Sherlock’s voice was distant, dreamy. 

That brilliant brain was lost in another case.  John wondered when Sherlock would see fit to give him the details.

He switched the kettle on, got down two mugs, and leaned back against the worktop.

Had this afternoon really happened?  Had John really been that brash? That stupid? He could have ruined everything.  Still, he couldn’t say he regretted it. He’d been full of adrenaline and hope for hours afterward.  Even if nothing ever came of it, he would at least have the memory of those eyes, that neck, those quick, deep breaths…

He looked down at the kitchen table and saw his leather journal – THE leather journal—sitting  in a neatly-cleared space amongst the glass beakers, test tubes, and lab equipment.

The cord had been laced through the cover again, but it was not wound or tied shut.

John stepped closer, and opened it to the first page.

There in Sherlock’s handwriting were two simple, beautiful, life-changing words:

_Yes, John._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns what John would like from a relationship with him, and he finds himself very much in favour of it.

Sherlock didn’t know exactly what to expect when John came back to the sitting room.

And that in itself was thrilling. When was the last time he couldn’t read a situation? When was the last time someone surprised him.

John came back, the leather journal in his hands, and he merely sat down in his upholstered chair near the fireplace.  The only acknowledgement Sherlock received was a nod and a faint smile.

_Unexpected._

For the next ten minutes, Sherlock continued his work on the computer while John sat in the chair and wrote in the journal.  Sometimes, Sherlock could see a grin cross John’s lips. More than once, John adjusted his position, crossed or uncrossed his legs, leaving Sherlock to imagine any number of wicked things were filling the once-blank, creamy pages.

Then, without any prelude, John stood up and walked toward the sofa. He didn’t sit down, didn’t reach out to touch Sherlock in any way. He just placed the journal, leather cord unfastened, onto the coffee table.

“I’m headed upstairs for a bit. Text me if you need me… or if you need anything, that is.”

“Yes, John.”

Sherlock couldn’t deny he was thrilled by John’s small, sharp intake of breath at those words.  John smiled, opened his mouth as if he would speak, then thought better of it, licked his lips, and left the room.

As soon as John’s footsteps were far enough away, Sherlock snatched the journal from the coffee table and opened it to  his own two-word message: _"Yes, John."_

There on the following page was John's sure, strong handwriting:

“Yes, _Sherlock._

_Yes to everything and anything._

_Yes to you, naked, in my bed, writhing in pleasure beneath me, panting, moaning, breathing my name._

_Yes to your hair in my hands, your head pulled back, your gorgeous neck outstretched as I mark your white skin with my lips and teeth._

_Yes to your heavy, uneven breaths. Yes to your gasps and whimpers._

_Yes to my hands on your chest and hips and on that phenomenal arse of yours. Yes to my fingers around you, on you, inside you… slowly, carefully,… fully._

_Yes to being yours._

_Yes to hearing you tell me you are mine. Mine and only mine. I want you, Sherlock, all of you, all for me, for as long as I can have you. For as long as you will stay. For as long as I can drive you mad with pleasure over and over again.”_

The pages of the journal rustled slightly in Sherlock’s trembling fingers.

He took his mobile phone from the side table and touched John’s name in the messages menu.

_\--John, I believe I’ll join you there. Right now, if convenient.  –SH_

A few infuriatingly-long seconds later (damn that man’s inability to type with any speed), the reply came.

_\--If inconvenient, come up anyway. Could be dangerous.  –JW_

Sherlock laughed despite himself.

Upstairs, he found John standing by the window and looking much as he had before, with the exception of bare feet, an open cardigan, and a few more shirt buttons undone.

“Supposed to be a thunderstorm, later,” he said; “It can get pretty loud up here.”

“Good thing I’m not bothered by thunder, then.”

John laughed. “No, but I could do without it.  Never did like the loud ones… the loud storms, that is….  I’ll have to find a way to distract myself, won’t I?”

Sherlock felt a tightness in his throat and chest.

John took a step toward the bed. “Come here,” he ordered.

Without hesitation, Sherlock walked over and stood close to John.  He shuddered as John’s hand found his waist and began to travel slowly and firmly up to Sherlock’s ribs, down to his hips, and up again.

The other hand pressed against the small of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock felt their bodies move closer, felt the warmth of John’s torso and thigh.  Felt just the edge of something hard against his own hip and thigh.

John leaned in and his breath was hot against Sherlock’s collarbone. “I am dying to taste you, Sherlock Holmes…”

“John…”

Sherlock’s thoughts paused the moment John’s lips press against the base of his throat.  It died altogether when John opened his mouth, laved the tender skin with his tongue, and then bit down.

Gently, gently at first. Then a little harder.

“Nnnnnh!” The sound escaped Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop it.

Teeth were replaced by the sensation of stubble, and then the building, blinding suction of John’s expert mouth.

John pushed him backward and down onto the bed, his lips never leaving Sherlock's throat.

Now Sherlock was panting in earnest.  His hard, irregular breaths were interspersed with moans, even whimpers, and each time the pressure of lips or teeth grew almost past the level of pain he wanted, Sherlock froze completely still, until John relented.  There were a few times when Sherlock almost saw stars from the pain and pleasure mixed together; there were even a few times when he thought that his skin would indeed break, that there would be blood on John’s mouth.

_Imagine, tasting John’s mouth….even tasting my own blood on his lips…. No, no that’s too... That’s too dangerous… That’s not what I….. what he…._

A delicious, thrilling spasm coursed through Sherlock’s body as John wove his fingers through the curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck and then pulled his head, hard, back and to the side.

“Right now, Sherlock, right here in this moment….in this bed… you are mine.  Only mine.”  He dipped his head down again and sucked at a previously ignored section of Sherlock’s throat before continuing; “Whose are you, Sherlock?”

“Y-yours… yours, John.  Only yours.”

“Good boy…” John kissed and sucked again.

It was too much. The pleasure, the pain, John’s body grinding against him through their clothing, those words… As the pressure of John’s mouth grew harder and harder, Sherlock arched his back, dug his fingers into John’s shoulders,…. And gave in to a long, hard release that shook him for what seemed like minutes, not mere seconds.

He felt dizzy.  Dizzy and somehow very thirsty. John moved carefully to lie full-length beside him, all the while petting and stroking Sherlock’s neck, shoulders, and forehead.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Here,” John rolled to the side and picked up a glass of water from the nightstand. “I thought you might want this if everything… progressed in a certain way.”  He placed one hand lovingly under Sherlock’s head and helped him rise up off the pillow just enough to take a few sips.

When the glass was back in its place, John ran his finger from one side of Sherlock’s throat to the other.  “Well, Mr. Holmes, I think you’ll be glad of your scarf. You’re pretty marked up.  Umm… Sorry about that. I hadn’t planned to get that carried away just yet.”

“Do you have a mirror? I want to see…” Sherlock breathed.

“Don’t think I have a mirror, but, here…”  John picked up his phone, raised himself up on one elbow, and took a photograph of Sherlock’s neck.  “I’ll delete that, of course. But this way you can see it pretty clearly.”

Indeed, reddish purple marks formed a loose chain from one side of Sherlock’s throat to the other. They’d be blue-black by morning, and obvious for the next several days.

John let out a low whistle of disbelief.  “Yeah, those are definitely very visible.  God.  I apologize again.”

“No, it’s…. fine.  It’s fine, John. Really.”

“D’you think Molly might know someone who does concealing makeup on the bodies when they’re done with them in the morgue?  Would you like me to ring her? Might be worth a shot.”

“I don’t want to conceal them. I’m not ashamed of them. I’m not ashamed of you.  Or us, John.”

John smiled broadly and kissed Sherlock on the eyes, the nose, and the lips.

“The way they’re spaced, it almost looks like a necklace.  Or maybe a…”

“A collar?”

John’s breath hitched again.

“Mmm. A bit, yeah.  Is that, um, an image… an idea… that strikes your fancy at all, Sherlock? Not for outside the flat, obviously, and only from time to time, when the mood hits,…. Would you ever want to do that?”

“Wear a collar? Your collar?”

John swallowed and nodded.

Sherlock reached out, pulled John’s face close,  very, very close, and trailed his lips from John’s jawline up to his earlobe.  He felt John’s whole body shiver as he whispered,

“Yes, John.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lull in their current case drives Sherlock mad with boredom and nervous energy. John finds a way to rein him in.

Sherlock was beside himself, angry, out of his head with frustration

"They've had the evidence for three hours, John! What more do they need?" He stepped up and over the coffee table, kicking off the folded, unread portions of John's newspaper.

He was rewarded with no more than a grunting cough as John cleared his throat. "They need more time, Sherlock. They have procedures to follow. I'm sure the moment they're ready to make an arrest, Lestrade will call to let you know…” here, John’s voice dropped to a murmur, “….which is more than he should do, considering you're not actually on the force." John sat back further on the sofa. He turned the page in the part of the paper he was reading and then snapped it flat with quite a bit more noise than was necessary.

This was well on the way to one of Sherlock's spiraling, irritated, blow-ups. He knew what was happening, felt his mind racing out of control, believed despite all logic that everything in the room, everything in the world, was part of some grand, sick scheme to drive him absolutely, irretrievably mad. What was the point of this work, of this brain power? What was the point of any of this, if it left him in torment, for God’s sake?

He took his blue satin dressing gown off the arm of the chair. Instead of putting it on over his white button-down shirt, he twisted it into a thick rope, folded it in two, and then squeezed it as if he were wringing a man’s neck. When he finally crumpled it into a ball and hurled it across the room, he heard John’s newspaper smack down hard against the sofa cushion.

“Kneel, Sherlock. Now.”

Something tingled in the base of Sherlock’s spine.

“What?"

“On your knees, I said. I won’t tell you again.” John stood up, feet set wide apart, left hand clenching and un-clenching.

Sherlock dropped to one knee without even thinking. That was almost a miracle in itself. However, the part of his brain that came back online an instant later still wanted to fight it. He considered standing up again, or at least making some kind of stinging retort. All he did, though, was crease his brow into a frown as he moved his other knee to the floor as well.

“Now clasp your hands behind your back. Yes, like that. Good. Don’t move…. In fact, I want you perfectly still until I return to the room. Nod once if you understand me.”

Sherlock’s lips tightened, but he nodded just the same. A part of him felt angry and ashamed, but a part of him –several parts, in fact- enjoyed the raw thrill of John in command. The warm, buzzing sensation of submitting to him.

John stared down at Sherlock for a few, silent seconds. Then he turned and strode calmly out of the front door.

Sherlock’s mind raced again, this time with question after question. Was John going to leave their flat or leave the building? Was this intended as distraction, or was it some kind of punishment? They hadn’t spoken yet of punishment, hadn’t negotiated anything like that, via spoken word or by writing in their now-shared journal. A pang of sickening, not thrilling, fear stung Sherlock’s heart. Was power going to turn John cruel, as it had done with more than one lover in Sherlock’s past? Was it a mistake to give himself over to someone again? Would even a kind, caring man like John give in to the base desire to crush another being, just because he could?

He heard footsteps going up to John’s room. There was some rustling about (pulling something out of a closet, most likely), and then slow, sure footsteps back down to the landing just outside the door. Sherlock hoped they wouldn’t continue down the next seventeen steps. He needed John back with him now. This very instant. His jaw muscles tightened at the thought of being left like this for who could say how long. His heart ached at the knowledge that he would probably give in and stay put as he’d been told.

When John came back into the sitting room, Sherlock let out a small sigh of relief.

John was holding a plastic shopping bag that had no letters, only a logo featuring three stylised chain links.

It was the logo of a rather posh sex shop. Expensive. Well-stocked. And they specialised in leather gear.

“I had them triple-bag this. Didn’t want your expert sense of smell to spoil the surprise, did I?” John pulled out another bag, then another, until he held something wrapped only in fine tissue paper. He put the plastic aside and stepped close to Sherlock again.

“You may look, and you may smell. You may not touch. Do you understand?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say yes, but remembered John’s last command. He closed his mouth again and merely nodded.

Slowly, carefully, John pulled back the layers of paper. The scent of leather was so strong, Sherlock had to swallow hard to keep from drooling. And when the last layer of paper was pulled aside, there it was.

A wide, deep red, single-buckle collar with a long, red leather leash attached.

Sherlock swallowed again, much harder this time.

“You’re going to wear this for me, Sherlock, and you’re going to respond to my commands, verbal and otherwise.” At this, John gripped the leash’s handle until the leather creaked.

The muscles in Sherlock’s legs began to tremble, and not just from the strain of kneeling.

“You remember your safeword? Let me hear it.”

The voice that escaped Sherlock’s lips was little more than a husky whisper: “ _Stravinsky.”_

“Good.” John took the loop handle of the leash and used it to caress Sherlock’s cheek before dragging it along Sherlock’s full lower lip. “And if your gorgeous, perfect mouth is… otherwise engaged? What is the signal for me to stop? Show me.”

Sherlock flexed his right calf muscle and rapped the toe of his shoe four times, quickly, against the floorboards.

“Again.”

Sherlock repeated the tapping, this time using his other foot.

“Excellent. Very good, Sherlock. You really are a _very_ good boy.”

The blood rushed to Sherlock’s neck and face. It throbbed in his ears and much, much lower in his already-stiff cock. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open and stay focused.

“Unbutton your shirt as far as you can without removing it. Then grasp your hands behind your back again. Do it now.”

With trembling fingers, Sherlock undid the shirt buttons over his chest and then down to his waist. He quickly put his hands back behind him and clasped them tightly to keep them still. He tried to manage the speed of his breathing, but it was a struggle to get enough air without actually panting.

Short, strong fingers opened Sherlock’s shirt and spread it out toward his shoulders. The air felt cool on Sherlock’s newly-exposed skin. John picked up the red leather collar and held it in two hands.

“Lean toward me, and look up. Keep your eyes on mine.” Sherlock complied, staring into John’s steel-blue eyes now darkened by wide, lust-blown pupils.

The leather collar might have been made of hot iron or pure electricity for the jolt it gave Sherlock’s skin at the first touch. He jumped, unable to help himself, but held John’s gaze. John licked his own lips and smiled.

“Bow your head, now. Keep your eyes lowered until I tell you otherwise.” Sherlock lowered his head and looked down as John fastened the collar and buckled it tightly.

It felt…impossibly good. Like danger and safety, like stimulation and comfort, like vulnerability and security all at once. If Sherlock had wanted to, if John had ordered him to, Sherlock knew he could come with no other touch but the soft, stiff leather of the collar against his throat.

“Look up at me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes, heavy-lidded already, met John’s again.

“Right now, here in this room, who do you belong to? Tell me.”

In a soft, shuddering whisper, Sherlock answered, “To you, John…”

“That’s right, Sherlock. To me. Only to me.”

John tugged the leash hard, causing Sherlock to pitch forward. He only managed to catch himself by grasping John’s thighs. Sherlock looked up to see John regarding him with a slight grin. “Now you know why I didn’t bind your hands. You’ll find you need them… for several reasons. Stand up.”

Sherlock stood slowly, teetering for a moment, but he did not use his hands or lose his balance. He saw approval in John’s face.

“Now, walk to the leather chair and kneel beside it, hands behind your back at all times. Keep your eyes on the ground until I say. Nod that you understand me.”

Sherlock nodded, cast his eyes downward, and took a few steps to the chair. He lowered one knee to the floor, then the other, moving slowly and deliberately as his muscles trembled with strain and excitement.

He heard John's confident, controlled steps, saw the shoes and trouser legs approach, and felt the slight movement of the chair itself as John sat down.

The leash of Sherlock's collar was hanging down and a bit away from his body. John reached out and took the looped handle again, moving it just out of Sherlock's field of vision.

Sherlock tightened his hips and back should he be pulled forward again. This time, he would not use his hands to brace himself. He would do only what John wished, only when John wished. He would lose himself in John's control.

Slowly, the leash went taut. John was pulling Sherlock forward bit by bit. Sherlock kept his eyes cast down, his body upright but yielding.

"You may look where you like, now, Sherlock, but keep your hands behind your back. If you start to fall, rely on me to catch you or leave you. I won't allow you to be injured. Trust me. Trust me completely." John cupped Sherlock's chin with on hand while he continued to pull the leash forward and down. Sherlock's face was closing in on John's lap. He could not help but stare at the bulge of John's erection.

"Sherlock, I want you to show me that you are mine. D'you think you can do that? Without your hands, without removing my clothing or yours? Can you show me that, now?"

Sherlock's entire body was vibrating with the desire to do just that, to take John into his mouth, to take him into his body, to fill the universe with nothing but John. He shifted lower on his knees, inclined his head, and lovingly brushed his cheek against the hardness he found. John's sharp intake of breath made Sherlock's heart swell with happiness. He bent even lower, now, and let his parted lips drag along the length of John's thick, solid cock as it strained against the layers of fabric.

He took pleasure in the feel of John as well as the sound of John's breathing and moans. With a care he reserved for very few things in his life, he traced the outline of every peak and fold before him. He pressed and pulled with his lips, caressed with his tongue, and grew drunk with the scent of John's body.

"Christ, Sherlock...that's good....yes, that's so good.... God, I want to feel that perfect fucking mouth all around me... Jesus...."

Before Sherlock could bask too long in John's approval, the collar pulled him up to just below John's chin. He let his body fall forward, and John, true to his word, caught him by his shoulders. He saw the leash drop onto John's lap.

"Unclasp your hands and get your gorgeous arse up here right now. I want you to lean against me, facing away, and I want you to move and grind on my cock until I order you to stop."

Sherlock moved quickly to position himself as John asked. The moment he made contact with John, he began to undulate his hips, wishing there were no clothing to separate John's flesh from his own.

John's right hand took Sherlock's hips and pulled him closer.  His left hand grabbed the collar just where the leash attached and brought Sherlock's head back to rest on John's shoulder.  "Push down against me, let your body weight do some of the work, but don't, for the love of God, Sherlock, don't stop moving your beautiful arse."  John punctuated his command with a soft bite under Sherlock's ear. 

It nearly made Sherlock explode. He bore down, wriggled, snaked his hips. Each movement not only intensified the maddening, wonderful contact between his body and John's, but it pulled his neck tighter against the collar. It was exquisite torture. He didn't know if he would come or pass out or both.  He couldn't possibly endure this much longer.

"John..." He gasped, not able to keep the word inside.

"Touch yourself for me, Sherlock," John ordered. "I want to see you come for me. I want to hear it and feel it right now. Just for me, Sherlock. Only for me. Undo your zip and let me see you stroke that lovely, slick cock just for me."

There was barely time for Sherlock to free himself and press his palm to the leaking tip of his own cock before John tugged the leash hard. "You're all mine, Sherlock. Mine. Come for me NOW."

Sherlock's body stiffened, he arched his back, and he came as hard as he'd ever done in his life.  His throat let out a long, strangled, wordless cry. 

It could have taken several minutes, not seconds, as far as he was concerned. When the spasms ended, he collapsed back against John's body. It was damp where his hips touched John's lap; he had come, too, at nearly the same time.  The thought filled Sherlock with indescribable happiness.

For the moment, Sherlock could do nothing but lie still and gasp for breath. His heart pounded in his chest and ears and head as if it would burst.  His thigh muscles burned from strain.

John carefully unbuckled the leather collar.  There would be deep red marks where the collar had pressed into soft skin, Sherlock thought.  

Good. 

Warm, gentle fingers stroked Sherlock's neck and shoulders. A strong, soft arm encircled Sherlock's waist.

"Are you all right?" John asked. "I'm right here, Sherlock. I've got you."

Sherlock laid his own arm over John's. "I'm fine.... fine... It was....unlike anything.......," he still fought to catch his breath; "intense....focused...."

"Intimate? Connected?" John offered.

"Yes... yes.... exactly...." Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his face toward John a little more. "It's everything I feared....And wanted."

John dropped light, reverent kisses at Sherlock's temple, cheek, and jaw. "It was more intense than I expected, too. I didn't think I'd last; you were that beautiful, Sherlock. You're breathtaking."  

John kissed Sherlock's neck. "As soon as I can move, I'm going to get a hot bath ready for us. You can soak those long legs a bit. I'm afraid they'll be sore tomorrow."

"Well worth it, Doctor Watson. Rest assured."

"Speaking of rest, I want you in your bed for at least five hours before you leave the flat again. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock smiled. "I do love following your orders, John, even more so if you order me to bed."

The breath from John's laughter tickled Sherlock's neck. "Don't get any big ideas. I'm not as young as I used to be, and we're both just getting started. I'll be happy to have a lie down with you, if it will help you sleep, but sleep is all you're going to do, and you're not getting out of that bed without sleeping even if I have to tie you down to it."

Heat rose up to Sherlock's cheeks. He felt a twinge shoot down to his spent cock.  "Is that a promise?"

"Yes, Sherlock, a solemn promise. Just you wait."

**Author's Note:**

> For Homosociallyyours, for her belated birthday.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Unwritten](https://archiveofourown.org/works/873837) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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